Multimedia round-up
Movies
JJ Abrams's reimagining of Star Trek was better than I could ever have expected it to be. Contrary to accusations from some die-hard Trekkers, Abrams has managed to stay true to the spirit of the tired old franchise whilst completely reinvigorating it with hipper characters and cutting-edge FX. Surely there won't be a better action blockbuster all year.
Let The Right One In was an effective melding of youthful coming-of-age tale and bloody horror, made more unsettling by its bleached 80s Scandinavian suburban setting. Perhaps not the masterpiece that some have made it out to be though, and certainly the gorier scenes prompted more knowing laughter from me rather than genuine scares.
And then there was a preview showing of The Hangover last week. Now, the format of this is somewhat original - three blokes wake up in their hotel room after a stag night in Vegas having gained a baby and a tiger but lost the groom - but the unlikeable, 2D characters (including a young Brian Blessed lookalike who might as well have a neon sign flashing above his head shouting I AM THE QUIRKY ONE) and absurdly cliched plot points (one of the guys - get this!- got drunk and married a stripper! When has that never happened in a Vegas movie, exactly?) provoke minimal laughs.
Having said that, I've enjoyed films such as Knocked Up, Superbad, American Pie and Road Trip, the latter sharing the same director as The Hangover. All of which goes to prove that it's impossible to predict what I'll find funny and what I'll find utterly charmless. Sitting next to what sounded like two giggly 12 year-olds who were like, saying OMG! at everything probably didn't help matters, but that's probably the target age range.
Music
It's a testament to the skill and professionalism of the Manic Street Preachers that Journal For Plague Lovers sounds so effortlessly good. Understandably, these are qualities that fans of the band during their radical, provocative earlier years may now find hard to stomach. Still, the rest of us can continue to marvel at James Dean Bradfield's seemingly endless supply of killer riffs and the highly successful way they mesh with Richey Edwards's typically dense and literate final set of lyrics to create what is essentially a less gloomy Holy Bible: Part 2.
Their gig at the Roundhouse found them on top form despite Nicky Wire's back problems - after running through every track of Journal... in order in the first half, they then did another hour's worth of greatest hits. The run of dodgy albums starting with This Is My Truth... up through Know Your Enemy and Lifeblood now appears to be a mere mid-period blip in an otherwise admirably high-quality rock career.
Rasslin' books
Finally, I've been reading both Chris Jericho and Bret "The Hitman" Hart's autobiographies. This is a genre I don't dip my toe into very often, which seems silly considering I've read some quality ones and indeed fellow wrestler Mick Foley's Have A Nice Day is my ALL-TIME FAVOURITE BOOK~!
Like Foley, Hart and Jericho both more or less wrote their stories themselves but they are markedly different reads. Jericho is a wonderful raconteur, and A Lion's Tale zips from anecdote to anecdote as his career takes him from humble beginnings in Canada down to Mexico, through Japan and Germany before finally winding up in the American big leagues. Interestingly, despite notably weird experiences in several different continents, by far the scariest place described herein is the good ole rasslin' heartland of the Deep South.
Jericho comes across as a strong-willed, dedicated professional who nonetheless refuses to take himself too seriously, an accusation which certainly could never be levelled at Bret Hart. As a result, Hitman sometimes feels like a chore to read, and although Hart never presents himself as entirely whiter than white, some of his holier-than-thou pronouncements do rather pall, eg the fact that he cheated on his then-wife with dozens of women while on the road is apparently justifed because it was better than him going out and doing drugs every night. Hmm.
However, Bret's career and family history are integral to the fabric of US pro wrestling. Everything is here, from the notorious Montreal Screwjob to the death of beloved Hart brother Owen and its aftermath, making this book pretty much required reading for anybody with a passing interest in this strangest of businesses.
JJ Abrams's reimagining of Star Trek was better than I could ever have expected it to be. Contrary to accusations from some die-hard Trekkers, Abrams has managed to stay true to the spirit of the tired old franchise whilst completely reinvigorating it with hipper characters and cutting-edge FX. Surely there won't be a better action blockbuster all year.
Let The Right One In was an effective melding of youthful coming-of-age tale and bloody horror, made more unsettling by its bleached 80s Scandinavian suburban setting. Perhaps not the masterpiece that some have made it out to be though, and certainly the gorier scenes prompted more knowing laughter from me rather than genuine scares.
And then there was a preview showing of The Hangover last week. Now, the format of this is somewhat original - three blokes wake up in their hotel room after a stag night in Vegas having gained a baby and a tiger but lost the groom - but the unlikeable, 2D characters (including a young Brian Blessed lookalike who might as well have a neon sign flashing above his head shouting I AM THE QUIRKY ONE) and absurdly cliched plot points (one of the guys - get this!- got drunk and married a stripper! When has that never happened in a Vegas movie, exactly?) provoke minimal laughs.
Having said that, I've enjoyed films such as Knocked Up, Superbad, American Pie and Road Trip, the latter sharing the same director as The Hangover. All of which goes to prove that it's impossible to predict what I'll find funny and what I'll find utterly charmless. Sitting next to what sounded like two giggly 12 year-olds who were like, saying OMG! at everything probably didn't help matters, but that's probably the target age range.
Music
It's a testament to the skill and professionalism of the Manic Street Preachers that Journal For Plague Lovers sounds so effortlessly good. Understandably, these are qualities that fans of the band during their radical, provocative earlier years may now find hard to stomach. Still, the rest of us can continue to marvel at James Dean Bradfield's seemingly endless supply of killer riffs and the highly successful way they mesh with Richey Edwards's typically dense and literate final set of lyrics to create what is essentially a less gloomy Holy Bible: Part 2.
Their gig at the Roundhouse found them on top form despite Nicky Wire's back problems - after running through every track of Journal... in order in the first half, they then did another hour's worth of greatest hits. The run of dodgy albums starting with This Is My Truth... up through Know Your Enemy and Lifeblood now appears to be a mere mid-period blip in an otherwise admirably high-quality rock career.
Rasslin' books
Finally, I've been reading both Chris Jericho and Bret "The Hitman" Hart's autobiographies. This is a genre I don't dip my toe into very often, which seems silly considering I've read some quality ones and indeed fellow wrestler Mick Foley's Have A Nice Day is my ALL-TIME FAVOURITE BOOK~!
Like Foley, Hart and Jericho both more or less wrote their stories themselves but they are markedly different reads. Jericho is a wonderful raconteur, and A Lion's Tale zips from anecdote to anecdote as his career takes him from humble beginnings in Canada down to Mexico, through Japan and Germany before finally winding up in the American big leagues. Interestingly, despite notably weird experiences in several different continents, by far the scariest place described herein is the good ole rasslin' heartland of the Deep South.
Jericho comes across as a strong-willed, dedicated professional who nonetheless refuses to take himself too seriously, an accusation which certainly could never be levelled at Bret Hart. As a result, Hitman sometimes feels like a chore to read, and although Hart never presents himself as entirely whiter than white, some of his holier-than-thou pronouncements do rather pall, eg the fact that he cheated on his then-wife with dozens of women while on the road is apparently justifed because it was better than him going out and doing drugs every night. Hmm.
However, Bret's career and family history are integral to the fabric of US pro wrestling. Everything is here, from the notorious Montreal Screwjob to the death of beloved Hart brother Owen and its aftermath, making this book pretty much required reading for anybody with a passing interest in this strangest of businesses.
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